


LAS Entries

by daymarket



Series: LAS Entries [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Buried Alive, Claustrophobia, Drabbles, F/M, Family, Fic Contest, First Time, Funeral, Gen, Growing Up, Multi, Other, Post-Anklet, Post-Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:39:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several minifics written for the <a href="http://whitecollarlas.livejournal.com">White Collar Last Author Standing</a> competition over on LJ.</p>
<p>The final is this week, so I figured that I should start cleaning these up! This includes all fics up to round nine. (Semi-final and final fics will be posted separately.) Rounds that aren't mentioned (ex. two) means that I used a skip for that week.</p>
<p>Chapter titles are the given theme for the round; titles are posted in the chapter notes. Please note individual warnings/headers etc. for each minific.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Round One: Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not a child anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title** : Transformation  
>  **Word Count** : 100  
>  **Rating** : G  
>  **Warnings and Content** : none   
>  **Spoilers** : 4x05 to be safe.

"I’ll come back,” he promises her. “I’ll bring you a Renaissance master, a seaside villa; I’ll bring back the world.”  
  
She shakes her head. “Just bring me back yourself, safe and sound,” she says softly.  
  
She can see the slightest hesitation in him—or can she? It’s probably just her imagination. His eyes are bright, fervent; she doesn’t know whether it’s from excitement or from tears. The defiant anger is gone now, but she’s not sure if this is any better.  
  
He steps away. Danny Brooks turns to give her one last smile, and Neal Caffrey walks out the door.


	2. Round Three: The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up with Neal isn't as easy as it might seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title:** The First Morning After  
>  **Word Count:** 350 words  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Sara/Neal  
>  **Warnings and Content:** None  
>  **Spoilers:** 3x01
> 
>  
> 
> **Round Three winner.**

Sara wakes up to soft, gentle kisses being pressed against the side of her neck, the warmth of Neal’s breath tickling her into wakefulness. She reaches out a hand to pet absently at Neal’s hair, running the smooth strands through her fingers. “Hey,” Neal says softly, his nose nuzzling her cheek. “Morning, gorgeous.”  
  
Idly, she wonders how many women he’s tried that line on. How many compliments has he spouted without a care or afterthought? It feels like a desperately cynical thought, given that her body is still deliciously sore with reminders of last night, but isn’t it better to know going in this—whatever this is? Neal’s got the strangest streak of chivalry, true, but at the same time, he’s been conning people his entire life. One way or another, she’s got to be ready.  
  
“Sara?”  
  
Neal’s voice jolts her out of her reverie, and she opens her eyes to see Neal gazing down at her. Sara slides her hand down Neal’s face, tracing the lines of the ridiculous symmetry that can easily make anyone swoon at his feet. No wonder he’s such a damn good conman.  
  
A subtle change comes over his face, the lines around his eyes and mouth tightening just a little bit. “Yep, that’s me,” he says with an easy laugh even as he pulls away slightly. Sara frowns, confused at the sudden change. It’s not until she replays the past couple seconds in her mind that she realizes she spoke the last sentence of her inner monologue out loud. “And still good enough to keep that Raphael away from under your nose,” Neal adds brightly. The words are blatantly playful, a clear opening to some scathingly witty repartee.   
  
And  _that’s_  the con, she realizes with sudden clarity.   
  
Sara’s not good at apologies. She’s not good at trust, either. But neither is Neal, and if he can make the effort, so can she. She hesitates for a moment before curling a hand around his neck and pulling him back down. “You’re a good man, too,” she says softly.  
  
It’s not much, but it’s a start.


	3. Round Five: It's the End of the World (As We Know It)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's not dead. She's not crazy. It'll all work out for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title** Rewriting the End  
>  **Word Count** 500  
>  **Rating** PG-13  
>  **Characters/Pairing** El/Peter  
>  **Warnings and Content** Major character death, vaguely sinister content  
>  **Spoilers** None

The day of the funeral dawns bright and sunny, birds chirping in the trees, the stark coffin and Peter in it, far too pale. The other FBI agents, Neal, their friends—they’re all so gentle with her, handling her like she’s about to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. And it’s  _ridiculous_ , it really is. Even as they pour out their eulogies and tributes to her husband, El’s eyes remain perfectly dry, her posture straight.   
  
She’s aware, in a distant sort of way, that they’re watching her, murmuring over her frigid composure. There’s probably a mountain of psychological babble they’re conjuring up to explain it, a neatly diagrammed flowchart that packs the stages of grief into neat little boxes. And it’s stupid, because the simple fact is that none of those categories apply to her. They’re meant to help people who’ve  _lost_  someone, lost them permanently, never to be seen again.   
  
And that’s definitely not the case here.  
  
The woman she speaks to is professional, calm, and detached. No pity, which is good, because Elizabeth Burke does not need pity. Not now, not ever. She flips through the contract briefly, and her hand is completely steady as she picks up the pen and signs. The woman promises her that the contract will be fulfilled tomorrow, and El drives home with her hands easy on the steering wheel, a cheery song on the radio, and a terrifyingly blank haze in her mind.   
  
The house is desperately quiet, but El knows that it’s not dead: it’s just waiting. Neal shows up at her (her and Peter,  _their_ ) house later in the evening, and he’s so very broken about it all, his entire body curled in on himself as if he expects a blow. El pulls him close and strokes his hair as he breaks down on their couch. Distantly, she wants to tell him the truth— _Peter’s not dead_ —but it’s probably better to wait. Peter can show them all when he comes home tomorrow.  
  
“I’m okay,” she says softly when he asks. “It’s okay,” she adds when he questions her, and she knows with absolute certainty that it will be.  
  
Neal eventually falls asleep sometime after midnight. She doesn’t, her eyes fixed rigidly on the wall clock. The woman said nine, nine o’ clock. A good time, nine. It’s nice and early, and Peter’s an early morning person. He’ll want to grab some coffee before he goes to work. If he gets here earlier, he could go on a run with Satchmo before work. Or maybe he’ll do that anyway. Surely the FBI lets you take a day off if you were dead a day ago? So yeah, he’ll do that, and then they’ll sit down and have breakfast together. A nice, normal start to a nice, normal day.  
  
She reaches down to pat Satchmo, her fingers curling through his fur.  _It’ll be fine._ The words repeat through her head, a mantra that will absolutely, without a doubt, be true.


	4. Round Six: In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The imagination can be a terrible thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title** The Imaginarium of Neal Caffrey  
>  **Word Count** 600  
>  **Rating** PG-13  
>  **Characters/Pairing** Hinted Neal/Peter/El  
>  **Warnings and Content** Claustrophobia, dark (buried alive).  
>  **Spoilers** None.
> 
> **Round Six joint winner.**

Breathe. In, out, careful, slow. Don’t panic, because if your suspicions are right, you really can’t afford to waste the oxygen. Reach out, see how much room you have, feel for anything that can help you. Don’t thrash, don’t flail. (It won’t help.)  
  
Right. Okay. That’s a wall to your left. Another wall to your right. And a wall above you, smooth and implacable, the final nail in your proverbial coffin. Or wait, literal coffin! It’s funny because you’re actually  _in a coffin_ , see? And you’re going to—wait—no, Peter will find you. He will. He must. You’re going to be fine. Just…don’t panic.   
  
Hands to your sides now, what else is in this cof—this place? Fingers touch on something hard, something rectangular: a tape recorder. Oh, isn’t this melodramatic. No self-respecting hitman would go for this! It’s straight out of Cliché Ways to Kill People 101. Drop them in a coffin, bury them deep, leave a taunting message on the tape recorder, let them record over it for last minute goodbyes…no. You’re Neal Caffrey, a conman with class. You’re not going to play into your kidnapper’s hands.  
  
…but, you wouldn’t mind if they did the part in the handbook where they’re supposed to bait and taunt the kidnappee’s friends. Because Peter and Moz and everyone else, they’ll find him if they have even the slightest clue what’s going on.   
  
(Whether or not they do it on time is another thing entirely. How much oxygen do you have? How much have you wasted already being unconscious? It’s not going to be enough, you’re going to die here, they’ll never—)  
  
Stop it. Stopitstopit. You’ve been in worse scrapes, you’ve had guns pointed at you, you’ve jumped from airplanes and buses and balconies, for God’s sake, you’ll be fine. And then once you’re out, you and Peter and El will laugh over this from the warm glow of the Burke home, safely ensconced in the big comfy couch with glasses of wine and Satchmo at your feet. It’ll be so funny, another one of the adventures of Neal and Peter, and when you’re all done laughing, you’ll kiss them both and they’ll kiss back and then it’ll all be okay. They’ll pull you tight and it won’t feel cramped and claustrophobic, and if you can’t breathe it’ll be because you never want to come up for air.   
  
(You’re panicking, you idiot, don’t panic, save air!)  
  
Something hard in your hands, something solid, something to help you claw your way through the walls—no. It’s the tape recorder, slick with your nervous sweat. You press the buttons with trembling fingers, not even caring anymore which one’s the right one. Who even uses tape recorders these days, anyway? So 20th century. Moz wouldn’t even save this thing for scrap, and he’s the biggest packrat you’ve ever met  _(ever will meet because you’ll never meet anyone again)_. A staticky buzzing from the tape recorder, and then there’s words—smooth and honeyed, not as good as you are  _(were)_ , but the words don’t matter because the intent is the same. Always playing the dangerous game, Neal Caffrey? Now you’re going to pay. They’ll never find your body. You can’t con dirt and wood.  
  
Stop. Rewind. Record.  
  
“Peter…”   
  
Is it getting darker in here? Stupid question, the only light is the red one of the tape recorder, it can’t possibly get darker. You’re crazy. Going crazy. Next stop, hallucination row. Or maybe you’re already there? Thumping. Is that thumping? Shovels? Coming to save you?  
  
Or maybe it’s just the frantic beat of your dying heart.


	5. Round Seven: Teaching/Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freedom beckons, but he's not the same man as the one who stepped out of jail all those years ago. Is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title** Choice  
>  **Word Count** 650  
>  **Rating** PG  
>  **Characters/Pairing** Neal, Sara, El, Peter, Mozzie  
>  **Warnings and Content** none  
>  **Spoilers** Almost post-anklet, sort of AU from 3x16.
> 
> **Round Seven winner.**

It’s one of those things they don’t really talk about, but it’s always there in the air these days, hovering none-too-subtly between them. Neal finds himself both relieved and frustrated by the silence: relieved because he doesn’t have to answer, frustrated because he doesn’t know how to answer. After all, the anklet has been around his leg for so long, and he almost can’t imagine life without it. What does he do next?  
  
Peter doesn’t do heart-to-heart talks, which is fine. Really. But he makes up for it in other ways, such as the time Neal walks into work and sees the packet on his desk. CIVILIAN CONTRACT, reads the title on top, and it’s nice, seeing “civilian” as opposed to “criminal”. The contract is pretty straightforward: work for the White Collar unit as a consultant. Better pay and benefits, and it’s legal work, good work.   
  
It’s an option. Neal tucks it into a folder to read later, acutely aware of Peter’s discreet gaze. And if Neal takes it home that night and reads it three times from front to back, it doesn’t mean that he’s committing himself to anything.  
  
~*~  
  
“Mrs. Suit requests the honor of your presence at lunch tomorrow,” Moz announces one night in June’s loft. Neal frowns a little in confusion, but he dutifully calls her up anyway. “Also,” Moz adds after Neal hangs up, “I would just like to say that you catch more flies with honey, insofar that the noble conman may be compared to an insect, and you should not be deceived by her nectar.”  
  
“What,” Neal says, amused. “Do you even hear what you’re saying, Moz?”  
  
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Moz says darkly.  
  
Mozzie’s reservations aside, El is cheerful as ever when they meet. Neal braces himself for the question— _the_  question—but it never comes up. Instead, it’s all about…life. There’s a gallery opening next month of Renaissance artists, and if Neal should want, she can get him tickets. She and Peter always do the same general decorations for Christmas, but maybe they’ll try something new this year. Any ideas, Neal?   
  
Talking with El is always fun, and Neal relaxes soon enough. It’s not until he walks away with a promise of same time next week, that Neal realizes that he’s been suckered. All those plans—they’re plans. Next week, next month, next year. Plans here in New York, where he’ll stay.   
  
Right?  
  
~*~  
  
Sara’s the most direct one about it all. “You shouldn’t stay,” she says bluntly as she steps through the door.  
  
“Good morning to you, too,” Neal says bemusedly. “And also, ouch.”  
  
“Where are you planning to go next?” she asks, and it’s discomfiting, being pinned down with such a direct question. “It can’t have been easy, staying in New York all these years.”  
  
“Would you miss me if I left? Sounds like you can’t wait to get rid of me,” he asks, half-joking, half-serious.  
  
Sara smiles at him. It’s sad, almost wistful. “I would,” she says softly. “But I’m not stupid enough to try to keep someone who doesn’t want to be kept.”  
  
“If this is about Alex—” Neal begins, but Sara cuts him off as she shakes her head. “What, then?”  
  
Sara leans forward and kisses him gently, almost chastely. “Resentment poisons a relationship more than anything else,” she says quietly as she pulls away. “I’ve learned that lesson well. Stay because  _you_  want to, Neal. Not because we want you to.”  
  
~*~  
  
He steps out onto the balcony that night, feeling the cool night air against his face. The contract’s lying on the table, meticulously dog-eared and examined. At the same time, the skyline beckons, with its seductive promise of adventure. The question’s been waiting, but he’s been avoiding the answer, running in the other direction as fast as possible.  
  
He’s been running for far too long. Maybe it’s time to stop.


	6. Round Nine: Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the world's falling down around their ears, there are only so many options they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title** Ultimatum  
>  **Word Count** 800  
>  **Rating** PG-13  
>  **Characters/Pairing** Peter, Moz, El, Neal  
>  **Warnings and Content** Zombies.  
>  **Spoilers** None.

Peter’s never fully appreciated the joys of modern living before, but he knows now that he never valued them enough. People tend to take a lot of things for granted, but somehow the reality of what was lost becomes just that much starker when the zombies are banging down the door. Well, not literally—Mozzie’s safehouse is well-hidden enough that apparently even the undead can’t find it—but close enough. There’s a terrible itch under Peter’s skin that grows stronger the longer he stays here. “We’ve got to get out,” he says as he turns around to face their little ragtag band. “There might be other survivors out there. We should band up with them.”  
  
Mozzie casts him a scornful look. “Everybody out there’s probably infected,” he says. “Unfortunately, they didn’t appreciate the joys of paranoia like I did. How many people do you know keep underground bunkers on hand in New York City with fully stocked pantries and mini-generators? Not nearly enough, let me tell you.”  
  
Peter sighs. “And your efforts are much appreciated,” he informs Mozzie. “But we can’t just hide here forever. We’ve got to do _something_. Plus, the supplies aren’t going to last us forever.”  
  
“Oh, and it’s my fault that I never planned for a zombie apocalypse?” Mozzie sputters. “Excuse me, Suit, I don’t see you contributing to the anti-zombie fund other than your little guns.” He waves a hand scornfully at Peter’s shoulder holsters. “And I gotta say, I totally have you beat in that area too.”  
  
“Russian weaponry,” Peter mutters. “Under other circumstances I should be arresting you for that.”  
  
“Take me to the courtroom, Suit. You can’t tell the difference between lawyers and zombies anyway.”  
  
Peter groans. “Look,” he says, trying to be as patient as possible. “The fact of it is that we can’t stay here. What are we going to do? Hide here forever? The food supplies aren’t going to last us longer than a week.”  
  
“I was shopping for one person!” Mozzie yells. “You think your military men going to swoop in and save the day? They caused this problem in the first place! It’s all the medical experiments hidden in the back labs. The attempt to engineer the perfect human being, an experiment gone deadly wrong!”  
  
“Mozzie, the government did not create zombies in a superpower experiment gone wrong,” Peter says as patiently as possible. “I don’t know how this happened, but it was not the government—”  
  
“Maybe it was aliens. Aliens who were angry at the government for splicing their DNA, so they unleashed their deadly bioweapons. Woe upon the hubris of man!”  
  
“Mozzie—!”  
  
“Guys,” Neal interrupts them, his voice cutting through their fight. “You should probably stop.”  
  
Peter turns indignantly to Neal and stops at the drawn look on his face. “What?”  
  
“Listen,” Neal says quietly, his voice hushed. “Do you hear that?”  
  
Beside him, El turns off the radio, the staticky sound vanishing into the sudden silence. There’s only the soft hum of the generator left in the background, but it’s not nearly enough to hide the faint sounds of thumping and dragging off in the distance—the not nearly far enough distance. Silently, she stands up, moving to Mozzie’s not-inconsiderable cabinet of weaponry and picking out a handgun. Peter’s ensured that she knows how to shoot, but there’s a big difference between a perp and a zombie. Shoot a living man, they’ll be feeling that for a while. Shoot a zombie anywhere but the brain, the damn things still go right on chugging. He pulls out his own gun and positions himself near the door, listening closely to the sounds.  
  
They’re getting louder.  
  
The door to Sunday is made out of steel. There are no windows for zombies to break and crawl through. Below them is solid concrete. Mozzie’s made them the perfect shelter in the event of a zombie apocalypse, so there is no logical reason Peter’s heart should be accelerating the way it is, no reason that his finger should be itching to pull on the trigger.  
  
“Neal,” he says as softly as possible, “what are the cameras showing?”  
  
Sunday, in a tribute to Mozzie’s truly spectacular paranoia, has a ring of cameras positioned all around it, showing the exterior of the building and the only route out. From the empty silence, Peter already knows with a sinking feeling that the news is anything but good. “Neal?”  
  
“Can’t con something that has no brain. For a bunch of mindless monsters, they sure know how to flush us out,” Neal says dully. He turns around. “We’re pretty much surrounded, Peter.”  
  
Peter looks grimly at the rest. “Decision time,” he says. “Stay? We’ve got a week’s supply of food left." He takes a deep breath. "We’ve got to fight our way out.”


End file.
